


Maybe in the Meantime

by indevan



Category: Twisted-Wonderland (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, Introspection, M/M, Minor Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28001709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indevan/pseuds/indevan
Summary: Even though they’re together, so much is still thorny and Jamil knows there’s a lot of unpack.  It’s easy to forget when Kalim curls around him, twisting strands of Jamil’s hair between his fingers when he kisses him
Relationships: Kalim Al-Asim & Jamil Viper, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 49





	Maybe in the Meantime

Jamil closes his eyes and breathes in the smell of the gym: sweat, rubber sneakers, boy. It’s not a good smell, but it’s one that’s become comforting to him. He’s alone and the sound of the basketball he’s bouncing with both hands is echoing through the empty gym. Bounce, bounce, _catch._ He lines himself up for a free throw, gets into position and shoots. The ball swishes through the net without touching the rim once.

He chases after it and dribbles back to the three point line. Jamil isn’t a shooting guard--with his height he’s a point guard, but. He wants to get better at shooting, wants to be able to slip into any position. He has to. When the coach handed him his jersey with the printed on number four staring him right in the eye. He’s in charge. People listen to him. It’s what he had wanted for Scarabia but now that he has it here, he doesn’t know what to do. Everyone is counting on him.

They’re playing RSA on Saturday. Basketball doesn’t draw any sort of crowd the way magift does--none of the athletic clubs do--but everyone is going to be here for this game. Jamil thinks they might even have a shot. RSA has humiliated them in magift for nearly a century, but they focus on athletics about as much as Night Raven does. They might have them in basketball. Jamil is going to make that certain. He’s the captain, after all.

Bounce, bounce, _catch._

Everything runs through his head about what can go wrong at the game. Floyd, for one, losing interest and not wanting to play. He’s their power forward with his height, strength, and speed and their top scorer when he wants to be. He’s the wildcard. Jamil tries to think about what could keep him interested. He hopes the team brings a challenge.

There is only so much strategy he can do with basketball. He’s prepared all he can. He’s watched videos of RSA’s playing technique enough to figure out who their starters will likely be, but there’s something unpredictable about the game that no amount of careful planning can account for. He, the shining example of Scarabia’s principles, should hate it but he doesn’t. It makes the game exhilarating.

Because basketball was also _his._

NRC was supposed to be his. When the dark carriage showed up for _him,_ it had been a big deal. Kalim’s father seemed more proud than his own, letting him go--which sometimes makes Jamil wonder if his entire complex with Kalim was something his parents invented rather than something the Asim family expected--and he was in a place where he could be _Jamil._ Then, two months in, Kalim appeared with bright eyes and a broad smile. He had rushed to him immediately, saying it’s incredible that he was there, too. Jamil still remembered the way Kalim and looked down and then up at him through his lashes when he said that he missed him so much that the dark mirror saw something to bring him here. Right. More like Crowley saw a big, honking check from the Asim family and brought him here.

Things are different now, incredibly different, but he still remembers the disappointment. The creeping resentment.

When Kalim came last year, he had panicked at thinking he would pick the same club as him just so they could be together, but after the club assembly, he had raced to him and excitedly told him about how he was joining the music club.

He knows Kalim will be at the game, because he’s in the stands of every game. Louder than anyone, he’ll hear him yell _“GO JAMIL!”_ and now he’s only moderately embarrassed. A lot of people have significant others in the stands and that’s what Kalim is now, right? His boyfriend. This game matters, though. Because Jamil is captain, because it’s RSA. Because he wants to win so badly and he wants _Kalim_ to see him win.

Even though they’re together, so much is still thorny and Jamil knows there’s a lot of unpack. It’s easy to forget when Kalim curls around him, twisting strands of Jamil’s hair between his fingers when he kisses him. The playful way he laughs afterwards, head tipped back and this look of joy on his face. Kalim surprising him by pressing him against a wall to kiss his lips, his neck, _lower._ They’re much better than where they were and sometimes Jamil still doesn’t know when resentment turned to friendship and friendship turned to feelings and then to falling, but he’s here. Standing on the precipice. He runs his pinkie through the smooth lines on the ball, tracing the shape of it. Turns his gaze to the net.

Bounce, bounce, _catch._

\--

The stands are packed in a way Jamil has never seen. Usually the crowd at a basketball game consists of Kalim, Floyd’s brother, Deuce Spade, and small clumps of people here for the other members. Every once in a while, Riddle Rosehearts comes and sits by himself, prim and straight-backed, and will cheer belatedly when Floyd makes a basket.

RSA hasn’t shown up quite as much, but this is an away game for them. Or maybe they just don’t want to be at NRC, because of how most of the student body reacts to them. Already low-level fights have broken out. Students from Savanaclaw “accidentally” spilled soda all over a group of visitors from Royal Sword.

Jamil simply tries not to think about them. RSA is another team and he wants to beat them. He wants to win. After warmups, he feels loose-limbed, but primed. Miracle of miracles, Floyd is ready to play today. He has this manic, frantic sort of energy and his ball-handling is a bit erratic, but he’s enthusiastic and Jamil will take what he can get. Ace is surprised to hear he’s a starter, but he’s good at what he does. He’s quick and unpredictable when it comes to doing what the other team expects. John, a tall foxperson from Octavinelle, is their center. He’s not as tall as Floyd, but he can jump. Jamil doesn’t know much about him except that he’s always with his little friend who barely talks. Their last starter is Marin from Savanaclaw. He is some kind of big deal in the Afterglow Savanna--his mother is in the royal guard or some such--but what Jamil knows is that he’s great at getting three pointers. It’s easier to get to know people when you play with them but, outside the court, he still really only hangs out with Kalim. Other members of their dorm still distrust him after everything, and he’d rather pry his own teeth out with his bare hands than hang out with Azul.

The whistle blows and the game begins.

It’s easy to get lost in the rhythm of the game. It’s like dancing but with more calculation. Move here, fake here, shoot, pass. They set up a rhythm. Ace still can’t believe he’s a starter and is showing off, but once Royal Sword’s forward gets three baskets past him, his expression changes.

Floyd is--frightening. When he’s serious like this, his grin becomes sharp and predatory. Jamil thinks of him at practice: goofing off or trying to breakdance or getting too excited and trying to shoot from one end of the court to the other. This is a different Floyd. He moves like he’s underwater, sure on his feet even though he’s only been on land for a year. Jamil is glad he’s on his side.

At halftime, he chances a glance to the stands. Kalim is there, dressed in one of Jamil’s hoodies. He doesn’t remember letting him borrow it but he’s been doing that lately. Something about how it smells like him. It’s embarrassing the way he’ll lift the sleeve to his nose and inhale, but there’s something about his face when he does it: eyelids at half-mast, expression soft. Jamil drinks water and breathes deeply. They’re up by ten points, but that means nothing. In basketball, leads this small mean nothing. The other team can come from nowhere, rally, and come back. They have to keep pushing. Their defense has to be ironclad, their offense has to be a fire.

It happens in the third quarter. Ace is on fire, so skilled for just being a first year who runs his mouth. He’s moving, ducking, almost like magic. Maybe all of those magic tricks he does helps with actual misdirection. Jamil doesn’t know what’s going on on the other end of the court. Try as he might, he can only see what’s in front of him. What’s in front of him is Ace and Royal Sword’s small forward.

Ace is trying to shoot. He’s ducking under the player’s arms, bobbing to the left in a fake and then shooting right. He goes to shoot and the forward’s arm comes down, lands on his. The ball flies from his fingers. It bounces off of the front of the rim so hard that the net shakes. Jamil’s eyes aren’t on the ball. They’re on Ace and the way he’s landed on his shoulder. The ref blows a whistle, hard and sharp. Cries erupt from the Night Raven side of the stands. People shouting and booing the forward.

He jogs over to where Ace is lying and, with the referee, helps him to his feet.

“I’m good,” Ace says, “I’m--ah--ah, ow!”

He’s wincing in pain, the eye with the heart painted over it squeezed shut. Jamil takes him fully onto his shoulders and walks him to the bench. Deuce, from somewhere in the stands, is already standing there.

“I can take him to the infirmary,” he says. He’s standing in that forced straight way of his, his chin raised and his hand in a fist at his chest.

“I just need ice,” Ace says. “I’m not leaving.”

Jamil knows his part is done. Whatever happens with Ace’s injury is now up to the coach and to Ace himself. He goes back to the court. He glances back to see that Ace hasn’t sat down yet. He’s talking to Deuce, but over the yell of the crowd, he can’t hear them. But he sees Deuce reach a hand up to gently touch Ace’s jaw. Sees Ace raise his arm--the one that isn’t injured--to pull his hand down.

John takes the foul shots meant for Ace. Thankfully, he sinks them both to make up for the basket that wasn’t scored. RSA switches their player out and gameplay resumes.

It’s hard to rally after that. The way the game stopped, how Ace got injured, it ruined the rhythm. Jamil feels like he does when he thinks he’s dancing alone, but someone comes up and turns off his stereo--exposed, thrown off. To make matters worse, Floyd’s interest is waning. At the beginning of the fourth quarter, he sees him yawn. With their groove thrown off, this could mean disaster. RSA closed the gap and leads now by eight. There are only three minutes left in the game.

Jamil calls for a timeout.

Someone in the crowd must sense it, too. The way Floyd’s gait has slowed and he’s no longer a force of nature, pounding on the court in his flashy sneakers. Jamil thinks that he’s never heard Jade yell or even raise his voice beyond his usual method of speaking in faux-soft spoken bemusement.

“Floyd!” he calls. “Someone isn’t impressed!”

“Ehh?”

Floyd actually stops in his tracks and looks. Jamil glances to see the other Leech twin leaning over the railing from the risers. Jade points towards a seat and--there’s Riddle. He’s sitting with his little crown on his head and his cape and his arms are crossed. He doesn’t look pleased.

“Goldfishie?” He lowers his head and stares Jamil dead in the eye. “Sea snake--call time in.”

Jamil hasn’t gotten to actually say or do anything with the timeout, but he knows better than to argue. Floyd looks frightening again. His grin is almost too wide for his narrow face.

Jade’s ploy works. Floyd, on his own, scores three baskets. They’re only down by two. The cries from the stands are deafening. He can’t hear Kalim over them like he can normally. It’s odd. The roar of the student body wanting _so badly_ to beat Royal Sword Academy at _something_ for once, even if it isn’t magift.

He books it up the court. His mind is moving fast, so fast. If he goes for a layup he can tie the game and they go into overtime. Jamil pauses at the arch painted on the wood. He’s outside of it. Jamil draws in a breath, feels the nubs of the ball beneath his fingers.

He crouches and shoots. The ball arches high. Jamil sees Marin poised beneath the basket, ready to jump up and aid it in an alley oop if need be. He doesn’t have to. Jamil knows this shot is good. He tries to fight the smug smile worming its way onto his face. The ball sinks into the net and the clock sounds off. They’ve won.

The Night Raven side of the gym erupts in screams. Everyone is absolutely losing it. The team swarms onto the court, even Ace who has an ice pack strapped to his shoulder. Floyd and John reach Jamil first, crunching him in a tight hug. Marin piles on top of him. They’re jumping up and down, screaming. They won. They won.

 _He_ won.

Jamil peels himself out of the sweaty, smelly heap of boys and wipes at his brow with the sweatband at his wrist. The stands are emptying as people run onto the court to congratulate the team or otherwise rub the win in Royal Sword’s face. They’re leaving the court, which is either a show of poor sportsmanship--doubtful, considering their reputation--or for their safety in case anyone tries to start anything with them.

Deuce is back, his arm tight around Ace’s shoulders, pulling him close. Epel Felmier, that deceptively delicate-looking first year from Pomefiore has joined them.

“HELL YEA!” he screams, both fists raised.

Jack Howl, standing next to him, gives Ace a playful punch on his uninjured shoulder. Jade stands next to Floyd looking suitably proud--or smug. It’s hard to tell. Riddle stands a short distance away, looking at Floyd with something approaching fondness.

“Jamil, Jamil, Jamil!”

He turns away from his team and sees Kalim coming towards him, weaving through running, excited bodies. He crashes into his arms, his head tucked into the crook of Jamil’s neck, not caring that he’s sweaty or smelly or anything.

“You’re incredible,” he says, breathing the words more than saying them.

Kalim looks up at him, red eyes full of warmth and affection--for him. It’s so easy for Jamil to bend down and kiss him, so he does. He holds Kalim close and leans down to kiss him. Kalim stiffens for a moment--used to being the one to initiate kisses--but he relaxes into it. It’s times like this where it’s easy for Jamil to untangle how he feels about him--resentment, friendship, feelings, falling, fallen. Holding him in his arms, breathing in the smell of him and examining the shape of Kalim’s molars with the tip of his tongue. There’s nothing but the two of them, uncomplicated and easy. They’re just two boys who like each other, two boyfriends, one congratulating the other on a good game.

“Picture, picture!”

Kalim pulls away from him to laugh at Cater Diamond holding his phone up for a selfie.

“Gotta get a pic with the star player,” he says with a wink.

He turns his phone sideways to get all three of them and Kalim presses his cheek against Jamil’s, grinning broadly. He feels. Gross and sweaty and weary, but it’s hard not to smile with all of Kalim up against him so he manages one. Cater checks the photo, nods and then walks away, muttering hashtags under his breath as he does.

“Let’s go to Mostro Lounge!” Floyd announces. “Azul’s treat!”

Jamil turns just in time to see Azul gape in disbelief.

“Like _hell_ it is! Every one of you is paying!”

He’s completely lost his cool and Jamil smirks at the sight of it. Azul fancies himself a master manipulator and an unflappable businessman and seeing him screaming and stamping his foot is nearly as satisfying as winning. Nearly.

“Go celebrate with the team,” Kalim says. He puts both hands on Jamil’s chest, framing them where his heart is, still beating hard with the thrill of a win and the thrill of kissing him.

“You aren’t coming?”

He doesn’t bother hiding his skepticism. Kalim loves partying. He throws enormous banquets with little to no occasion or warning.

“Come to the dorm when you’re done.”

\--

When he returns to the dorm after going with the team and stopping at the showers, he doesn’t find Kalim in the common area. Jamil checks his phone and sees that he doesn’t have any texts from him. Usually, Kalim can’t go longer than a few hours without texting him. He texts multiple times in a row, splitting up what could be one text into five. Sometimes he just sends a long _“JAMIIIIIIIL”_ if something has gone wrong.

Kalim isn’t in his room either so he checks his own. There he is, in Jamil’s bed with the covers pulled up to his chin.

“Hey.” Kalim turns his head and smiles at him. “You’re back!”

“I am--I took a shower after we went to Mostro Lounge.” he says, “So I don’t smell.”

“I wouldn’t mind it,” Kalim says.

He gestures with his chin for Jamil to climb in. Jamil doesn’t know why he’s like this, clutching the blankets with both hands. Jamil steps out of his shoes and slips under the covers in his shirt and sweats. Kalim inches towards him across the mattress. Jamil realizes it immediately--why Kalim was lying like that, keeping the blankets up so high that only his head showed. He isn’t wearing a stitch.

“Kalim…”

They’ve done this before, enough that it’s become a normal part of their relationship. Jamil has learned how Kalim’s body works with his, how they move together. This, though, is still surprising. Kalim presses against him.

“Is this okay?” He looks a bit nervous, his lips wet and his mouth slightly open.

Jamil nods. “It’s fine. Better than fine.”

“Good. I want to celebrate you, my big winner.”

Kalim kisses him and Jamil’s eyes slip shut. He knows that this isn’t perfect or easy. He knows they have more to figure out and unwind and unpack, but those are problems for the future. Jamil doesn’t have to think about it right now with his hands curled gently against Kalim’s neck, his mouth on his. Kalim’s own hands sneaking up Jamil’s sleeveless hoodie. If he lets himself go, this is as natural to him as dancing or basketball. He pictures himself, alone in the gym, practicing.

Bounce, bounce, _catch._

Mentally he brings himself back to bed and kisses Kalim again.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/smugsnail)!


End file.
